ikiru
by sueb262
Summary: “Ikiru” – to live. In a world defined by loss & death, where your future lies not in your existence but in the lives made possible by your sacrifice, what does it mean to be handed an opportunity to live, in this moment? For yourself? A story in 2 voices
1. Chapter 1 Watch

With enormous gratitude to my beta, siriusfan13, whose unerring ear  
and indefatigable persistence have made this story at least readable.  
Thanks, my friend.

**ikiru**

"_Ikiru" – to live; to exist. In a world defined by loss and death—where your future lies not in your existence but in the lives of those who will follow you, in the lives made possible by your sacrifice—what does it mean to be handed an opportunity to live, in this moment? For yourself? A story in two voices._

**Chapter 1 - Watch**

At first, he spent most of his time outdoors.

The ceaseless vigilance and unrelenting terror of his last months in the City clung to him like a stench that he couldn't wash away. He slept little and, after a few hours dozing in the darkest corner within sight-line of the door, he would wake in the cold pre-dawn grey, the dew still dripping from the roofline, and slip out into the chill air. Soundlessly treading the pathless forest behind the cottage, he would seek out a different spot each day—sometimes up a tree or pushed back into a bush-shielded hollow in the mountainside—and settle in for a few hours. Sometimes he didn't stay put, but patrolled restlessly, ears alert for sounds and signs that didn't belong. He thought it unlikely that they would use the path that passed by the little house, but with no backup, he had to cover all approaches himself.

Once the sun was up, he would come back to the house. And to breakfast.

The provisions they'd brought with them were adequate for a few days of strict rations, but he would have to find a way to re-supply soon; there were two of them, after all, and he wasn't sure how much sustenance a woman required. Hadn't his _shishou_ mentioned some kind of special, periodic nutritional needs? He didn't like to recall those awkward lectures about women and _sake_; his master's tastes and habits had been disturbingly foreign to him, and he wondered what the older man would say about the situation he now found himself in…

Initially, he'd been uneasy with his commander's choice of companion. He understood the necessity for a cover for himself, and he even accepted the idea of posing as the husband half of a married couple. After all, a single man, living alone in one of the tiny forest huts that dotted the mountainside above the town, would have attracted far too much curiosity. While it wasn't unusual in the City to find men living on their own, they usually did so in cramped row houses, or as tenants in larger households. But in rural areas, with living space carved out of precious agricultural land, no dwelling could be allowed to house only one occupant. This one had stood empty for too long already, and so risked drawing unwanted attention to itself, damaging its credibility as a "real" house. To be useful as a safehouse, it was essential that the townspeople believe it to be owned and operated by a landlord. And what landlord, even an absent one, could afford to have a potential income source stand idle?

So while he knew that a "wife" was key to the success of the plan, to his survival, he would have preferred someone—_any_one—other than this particular woman. It was bad enough that he'd gotten saddled with her at headquarters. Now he worried that her presence, while necessary, would interfere with his ability to concentrate. He'd avoided the company of the women whenever he could; their endless chattering had been a distraction at best, and he had been appalled by the flirtations flung his way. What were they thinking? What possible outcome could they have been imagining? He was not a suitable companion, no one to be desired. Certainly not husband material. He was a killer, a demon.

Nothing but a sword.

But to his relief, he discovered that the solemn demeanor she'd displayed at the inn was, in fact, her true nature. Her obsession with order seemed almost a match with his own, and she was not giddy. Too, her personal habits proved to be adequately unobtrusive.

In fact, she was almost mute.

This suited him. She kept their space tidy with a minimum of fuss, and she provided their meals promptly and handily. She did not seem to require anything of him, and this, too, suited him: he was free to focus on that which was truly important: morning _kata_, hauling water, chopping wood.

Keeping watch.

_

* * *

A/N: I tried to use only Japanese words familiar to most readers, but I will provide a glossary anyway:_

_sake – rice wine  
shishou – master  
kata – patterns of movement for Japanese traditional art forms, but especially the martial arts_


	2. Chapter 2 Watch

**Chapter 2 - Watch**

He was always watching.

Constantly on the prowl. Seeming never to sleep.

When she'd agreed to accompany him in his exile, she'd been sure that this would be the perfect opportunity for her. She knew any approach to him would have to be under his guard, that she would have to manipulate him into trusting her. He'd begun to seem erratic and unpredictable, and she'd thought that this weakness could be turned easily to her advantage, that by seeming to be working with him—providing a "retreat" for his spirit, as Katsura had explained it—she would find her moment easily. She even imagined that he might deliver himself into her hands in some way, might commit some offense against her that would make her actions seem blameless.

So far, she had utterly failed to come up with anything workable. It was no better than when they had been at the inn together. In fact, it was worse: on this mountainside, living in confinement with him, she was isolated, and she felt it keenly.

It had happened so suddenly.

* * *

_Tension had been building through headquarters for weeks, and she had no idea why. Daily, it seemed, men and equipment disappeared from the compound, sent off to hiding places, or choosing on their own to join other, less threatened factions, even deserting to home. She'd heard hair-raising tales of a few deserters who had been caught and brought back to be dealt with…_

_Katsura had appeared one evening in the kitchen's entrance, stunning the room into a sudden, frozen silence. He'd never even stepped foot into the housekeeping wing, not once since she'd been working at the inn. In fact, she'd only caught glimpses of him across courtyards and down hallways. One time, very early in the morning, just as she'd risen with the other girls to begin the morning meal, she'd passed a slightly open doorway and glanced in because the room was lighted, candles burning low and almost guttering. He and three other men hunched over a set of maps strewn on the __tatami between them and speaking in low, urgent tones—she'd recognized in their fatigued faces the signs of an all-night meeting and had felt a shiver of dread at what it might mean._

_Today, however, he seemed fresh and collected, if just a little too focused. As he stood in the doorway, he'd glanced over them all, seeming to evaluate each one in turn, and had finally settled his gaze on her. A jerk of his head in her direction, then he'd turned on his heel and vanished. In the hush that followed, the girl standing next to her had snatched off her apron and hissed, "Hurry! Follow him!", giving her a small shove toward the door. Her heart in her mouth, she'd scurried out the open door after him, forgetting to close it because she could see he was already down the hall, mounting the steps toward the soldiers' rooms, not even checking to make sure she was behind him._

_She couldn't imagine what was going to happen to her, and her mind raced over anything she might have done recently that could have given offense. She was out of breath by the time she caught up with him, just as he stopped at the door to the killer's—her killer's!—room._

_Now she was really terrified. Had she been found out? Was this going to be a scene of accusation and forced confession, perhaps even culminating in her target's being given the opportunity to wreak his revenge on her right then and there?_

_Hiding her trembling with difficulty, she nevertheless knelt smoothly and slid open the __shoji, bowing low as Katsura swept past her into the room. She lifted her eyes just in time to see the assassin drop quickly to one knee, bracing himself with one stiff-armed fist on the floor and snapping his head down before his commander. She'd glimpsed his face, and was herself surprised to note shock and uncertainty there, as well._

_"Himura-san, do you have leisure now?"_

_The soldier looked up and replied quietly, "My time is yours." He still had not so much as glanced in her direction._

_Katsura drew a breath to speak, but stopped abruptly and turned his head toward her. Himura turned as well, and she felt her face color under his piercing gaze._

_"Yukishiro-san, please come in and close the door behind you."_

_

* * *

Glossary:_

_shoji - wood-framed sliding door, with a grid of bamboo or wood covered by translucent rice paper  
tatami - rice straw mat with a covering of soft rush straw_


	3. Chapter 3 Private Time

**Chapter 3 – Private Time**

He shifted to the other knee, and brushed away a twig that had dug itself deep into his skin, even through the heavy silk of his _hakama_. Here in the forest, he felt the hours spent squatting in the same position in a way that he never had in the brutally cold nights in dark alleys. This waiting for he knew not what was entirely different from stalking prey. It was boring, and he found it difficult to maintain focus.

_Time for another perimeter check._

He picked his way down the mountainside, avoiding previous paths and stopping frequently to listen. Nothing but birds and insects. And the occasional far-off crunching tread of a larger creature. _Probably a bear._ Not even a hint of another human; the other cabins were pretty far off, and many of their occupants spent the day in the town.

Perhaps they truly were hidden here.

The layout of the grounds around the cabin intrigued him. It was clear that there had once been a garden to the south and west of the building, but it was almost entirely grown up with weeds and brush now. He remembered with pleasure the tiny patch of vegetables his master had carved out for him, and the hours he'd spent in peaceful escape tending to those plants—watering and weeding it, de-pesting and harvesting it. Protecting it.

His ramblings had brought him to the bank of the rushing river that sliced down the mountain toward the lake. He'd followed its rocky edge downhill, his head filled with furrow depths, planting schedules, and pest control schemes. Suddenly, the river's roiling surface exploded: the fish already in the air, a gleaming, silvery arc trailing a ribbon of water. A flash of a memory: he and his master lying on another sun-dappled riverbank, in another forest. In another life. His master had perfected a technique of weaving together long flexible twigs into a sort of basket, which could then be wedged between rocks in a promising set of rapids. The hours they spent waiting for the evening's meal to offer itself, the companionable silences, the quiet talk— And nothing he'd eaten since could compare to the taste of pike that had been grilled mere minutes after it had taken its last breath.

He was a little out of practice, but his fingers still remembered the trick of bending and braiding the thin branchlets. He examined his workmanship with satisfaction, testing it for strength. It was a passable trap; it would do the job. He removed his sandals, then rose, hitched his _hakama_ higher into its ties, and waded out into the icy stream. He'd watched the fish passing along this section of the river and had seen that they favored one passage in particular. He stretched his basket across this portion and secured its ends with the heaviest of the rocks, then sloshed back up onto the bank to dry off and wait.

He found a sunny spot, and lay back against the soft forest floor. While he waited, he thought seriously about their situation. He was in hiding, and he needed to stay out of sight. He was a new resident in a small town, and he needed to head off curiosity about who he was. It was a fine line, a balance of approachability and invisibility. His experience made him suited for disappearing into shadows, but little equipped him for delicate social interactions. And her… He couldn't decide whether she was in fact an asset, as his commander had predicted, or a liability. Idly, he wondered why she'd agreed to come with him. He'd not really wondered about this before.

The realization made him sit up abruptly. What was she doing here? As he remembered the conversation that night in his room, it seemed to him now that she'd been almost eager. At the time, he'd put it down to her curious attachment to him, but now he wasn't so sure. He'd never been able to sense women in the same way he could men, and most of what he could make of their motivations had always been pure conjecture.

This was never more true than with this woman. Her attentions were inexplicable, her past a mystery, and although it was true that she'd really had no option but to acquiesce to Katsura's "request", her keenness—or rather, her lack of resistance—had been, even at the time, puzzling.

A watery crash brought him back, and he jumped up just as the rock holding one edge of the basket rolled up and away. In a flash he was in the water, running right along the riverbed, heedless of his clothing, to rescue his catch before it could be swept downstream entirely. He caught up the basket with its slippery, wriggling contents, and clasped it to his chest, freezing cold water streaming down his front as he slogged his way back to dry land and heaved himself up the bank.

Panting and shivering, he folded it over on itself and tied the straggling ends together. He held it up and peered at his prisoners. _Three! And this one is a good size._

He was still dripping, but he donned his sandals, then reinserted his sword into his _hakama_ ties, picked up the basket and swung it over his shoulder. Already anticipating the crunch of crispy fish skin and tender white flesh, he headed straight downhill toward the house.

Perhaps this exile wouldn't be so bad.

_

* * *

_

Glossary:

_hakama – a divided (umanori) or undivided (andonbakama) lower-body garment, like a skirt, deeply pleated and tied at the waist. Kenshin wears umanori._


	4. Chapter 4 Private Time

**Chapter 4 – Private Time**

She spent most of her time alone putting the cottage in order.

Although a daughter of a samurai family, they'd never been wealthy, and she'd had to learn early how to keep a house and run a kitchen. Fortunately, the safehouse had been supplied with most of what they needed to live, at least for a time. There were small sacks of rice and of red beans, a jar of tea, kitchen wares, cleaning rags. Candles. A broom. Even a small jug of _sake_.

And a _futon_.

As she swept the floor, her hair tied up in a cloth to keep it out of her way, she thought about her young brother, her sad father. About her lost beloved. She bit her lip, and felt the rising dust catch in the tears trembling in the hollow of her lower lids.

Nothing was as she'd planned, as she'd expected. She could now hardly even recall that day she'd left her father's house.

* * *

"_It is __her__ fault, all her fault!" "She never deserved him—" I heard her father arranged the match only to erase a debt."_

_She hadn't really left her room for days, kneeling before her personal shrine for hours at a time, only creeping out her door in the dead of night to the interior courtyard to refresh the greens for the altar. News of her loss had spread quickly, and her father's house soon filled with female relatives and neighbors, claiming to be there to help out. She noticed that they did little but drink tea and gossip._

"_I think Kiyosato only left to try for a better position—just to please __her__!" "Don't be ridiculous—because her family is so poor, he __had__ to increase his income." "Do you think so?" "Either that, or he wanted to get away from such a girl. Spending all that time outdoors, playing with her brother in the woods, wearing boys' clothes— For goodness sake, she's almost 19! What kind of a wife would she make as she is?"_

_Gales of giggles, shushed to snickers. They no longer even pretended discretion, but would gather in the room right next to hers, and they made no attempt to muffle their voices._

_In her malaise, none of this mattered to her. Even when Enishi crept in to her when no one was looking, in spite of orders to leave her alone in her grief—and besides, he was too old to spend so much time in the company of women, sister or no—she couldn't bring herself to respond to him. _

"_Sister, come out with me!" She didn't even glance at him. Kneeling behind her, he fell against her back and gripped her shoulders with his small hands. "__Please__, sister—! Why are you being like this?" She could feel his hot tears on the nape of her neck, his sweaty palms crumpling the sleeves of her _kimono_._

_But this all seemed to be happening at a great distance, and, after a time, she found herself alone again. _

Poor Enishi—

_One day, she came to herself in a great quiet. The house seemed empty. Rising stiffly to her feet, she put an ear to a square of rice paper and listened intently. Not a sound. Cautiously, she slid open the door, and looked up and down the hall, then stepped out onto the polished planks. In profound silence, she glided like a ghost through the rooms of her own house, only to realize that—_Finally!_—the visitors had gone. Her father must be away on some business, and Enishi, no doubt, was out in his beloved forest, hunting, or perhaps just wandering._

_In the freedom of solitude and silence, her mind seemed to awaken. The fog of shame and confusion and grief lifted, and she felt herself straighten and breathe deeply. She could think clearly again._

_Could experience, fully, what had happened to her. What it meant in her life. What should happen next. Her honor should be avenged, her wrong, righted. A family pulls together, decides how to respond to affronts, to intentionally inflicted damages. An emissary is sent, and reparation is negotiated, demanded. A deal is struck, scores are settled._

_Her__ family, however, was so reduced in circumstance as to be virtually impotent. No suitable males within, and so little status that their troubles raised not the slightest scandal outside their own walls._

* * *

This task is mine_._

_She returned to her room, packed a small bag, and changed into her best _kimono_. Sliding open her door, her eye fell on the gift her father had given her at her coming-of-age ceremony: her mother's lacquered and inlaid _tanto_. Tucking the small knife into the fold of her _obi_, she stepped out her door and began her journey._

And now, she was trapped in this house, this tiny, ignominious cottage purposed only for cowards. Whose house? Certainly not hers. Not even her "husband's". Again, she felt mired in indecision and powerlessness, trapped in the machinations of others and the workings of fate.

_

* * *

_

Glossary:

_futon – a bedding set consisting of a mattress, called a shikibuton, stuffed usually with cotton or wool, and a comforter, called a wabuton.  
kimono – literally, "thing to wear", the kimono of the late Edo period (and still) is a T-shaped, straight-line robe worn so that the hem falls just to the ankle. Tomoe's kimono is not quite a furisode, with its floor-length sleeves and spectacular embroidery and dyeing, but it is a formal style, as shown by its free-style painted decoration that spans the hem (informal styles have woven or dyed repeat all-over patterns).  
obi – the sash for both men and women, but differing greatly. Tomoe's obi is that typical for a young, unmarried woman: made of heavily embroidered, brocade silk, and requiring a multitude of under-belts and stiffeners to create and support its complicated folds and elaborate, decorative knot. Even up to the mid-20__th__ century, many Japanese housewives dressed every day in the traditional, labor-intensive kimono-obi outfit, even if they did not plan to leave the house; it was not necessarily reserved for special occasions or fancy dress.  
tanto – a short blade (between 6 and 12 inches long), designed primarily for stabbing rather than slashing. Tomoe carries her mother's kaiken, which would have been given to her mother as part of her wedding gifts, a sort of good luck token. _


End file.
